The Boy Who Wasn't
by thefaithisdead
Summary: What if you could re-do the past, change events and live happily ever after? Rated R for sexual conduct, death, and drugalcohol use.


**Disclaimer: The usual. Harry Potter nor any of the other characters belong to me, they belong to J.K. And parts of this plot are based off of scenes from Donnie Darko, which ALSO doesn't belong to me.**

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_"Harry. Come on, you should get up now."_

_The words filter through his brain, settling like leaves, and then swirling away to be ignored. He looks up at her blankly. The sky matches his emotion, the bleak gray sky and dark rain clouds that threaten to explode over their heads match the grayness of his heart and the tears that shimmer at the corner of his eyes. Hermione stands in front of him, her face shadowed and shining with tears. Or maybe it is blood. Blood mixed with ashes._

_"Hermione."_

_He is surprised by the sound of his voice, how normal it sounds. It shouldn't be this way. He looks around and everything is red. Red like the blood that is steadily drying into a dull brown on his fingers._

_Nothing matters anymore. She's dead._

Harry sat up straight in bed. It had been two months since the accident, and he still jumped at noises in the night. "Blaise…" The name fell from his lips, and hung there in the air, frozen. He reached over blindly, groping in the dim light of the moon drifting through the window, trying to find his cigarettes. Breathing in relief, he grabbed the package and pulled one out, his fingers shaking as he lit up. Blaise would have hated for him to smoke, especially in bed.

He ignored the room, the room in which her magicked body lay, covered in those stupid silk sheets she wanted so badly. They were green and he hated green, even though they had matched her eyes perfectly. The door was partially opened, and he ignored the urge to close it, because he knew he would look in there, and see her, and then he'd cry.

He sighed heavily, and in a fit of rage, threw the fag across the room, where it hit the wall, leaving a black mark. Lazily he waved his wand at the glowing orange speck and dropped his wand on the floor. Closing his eyes and rolling over, he went back into an uneasy sleep.

The sunlight streaming in through the slats of the blinds hit his eyes, nearly blinding him. "AUGH!" Harry fell out of bed and walked sleepily to the bathroom to change for the day.

Hermione sat outside of Harry's apartment, her arms tightly around her legs. Sometimes…sometimes she wanted to shake Harry, to hurt him, to wake him up from whatever stupid illusion the man had. There was no point in talking to him, no point at all. And the fact that his dead wife was sitting in their old bedroom, looking young and beautiful the way she did on that fateful day, well that was certainly enough to make her not want to enter.

"I lost someone also…" she murmured to no one, "you're not the only fucking one, Harry."

Hermione pushed open Harry's door, the latch hadn't caught on the lock for the fifth night in a row, and she made a mental note to remind him to lock his bloody door, lest someone rob his flat. She knew he'd be crushed, his valuables were objects Remus had found for him, odd little knick-knacks and furniture Sirius and his parents had collected. She knew his Firebolt was no longer a treasured item of his, long had he locked it away; Blaise loved flying.

Ron had been up the other day and he hadn't had any more luck in making Harry actually leave than she thought she'd have today. And Ron…Ron was more crushed than she, having lost two people, his two 'favourite women', as he'd say.

"Harry."

Such a simple word made him jump. She looked at him worriedly, and felt her heart fall through her ribcage. His hair was messy and greasy-looking, the shirt he had been wearing when he had found her was still hanging off of his lanky frame and the blood stains when he had crushed her against his chest were brown and faded. His pallor and sunken eyes made him appear even deader than the body that lay across his bed.

"Harry. That's just…not normal! You have to eat. Seriously."

Harry smiled faintly at her and clucked. "Yes, mum."

Hermione breathed in deeply. Mild success, he had smiled. "Want to catch some tea and scones? I know of a place nearby. Muggle, of course."

He shrugged.

"We could meet Ron. It would be just like old times. Please, you must eat something."

Harry glanced at the backroom, then walked over and pulled a cloak from his closet and grabbing Hermione's shoulders, steered her out of the door. Hermione smiled at him and checked his door before leading him into the busy street below.

"So I told my girl that this was the best damn fish and chips place in town, right? And she said, 'You bastard, this town has one house, of course it's the best place in town!'" Ron said, with a flourish. Hermione laughed, splashing a little of the hot cider on her fingers. She flinched and Harry eyed her. "You ok? Maybe we should go." Harry glanced at his wristwatch and frowned. "Actually, I need to go. I'll talk to you later, ok?" He shoved his chair away from the table, knocking it down in his haste.

Hermione watched his retreating back with a heavy sigh.

Harry's shoulders slumped with relief when he opened the door to his flat. He walked in, instantly becoming used to the gray that filled the small place with an air of melancholy. But he was used to it, and it made him inexplicably happy.

He threw on a kettle and settled back to read the evening Star when there was a noise. A bright beam of light filled the gloomy room and Blaise Zabini walked in, her hair fanning out around her face like a model. The unearthly light made her pale skin glow and her green eyes glimmer like newly cut and polished emeralds, placed in the perfect settings. Harry stood up and walked towards her. "Blaise…" The word fell from his lips like a plea and she began to fade. "NO! FUUUUUCK!!"

Then, just as strangely as she appeared, the mirage was gone and Harry was once again alone in the cold gray of his small flat, the walls seemingly more dank and drab than they were before.

Six months had passed since…well, since the battle. Six months and so much death. How could humans even try to recover when they suffer so much? What was the point? Harry was growing rapidly worse and Hermione was furious.

"Dammit, Harry. That fucking time-turner won't do you a damned good! But I need it for my bloody job! Where is it? I do EVERYTHING for you! I try to feed you, to make you attempt at functioning like a normal human being. I try SO HARD…and this is how you repay me…SHE'S DEAD. But Harry…we're still here. We're still here."

Hermione was the picture of anger, hands on hips, face flushed. Harry glared at her. "I didn't take your fucking precious time-turner, you cunt!" he sneered, watching as the blood rose in her face. "I'm sick of you! Get the fuck out of my bloody hou-" He didn't finish the words because his ears were ringing. Hermione had taken her hand and slapped him as hard as she possibly could. Standing there, her hair appearing more bushy than normal, her hand raised and her breath coming out fast, she spoke tersely. "You." She hissed, "You are not the only one who lost someone, you selfish…you fucking…I'm DONE!" And with a shake of her head, she stormed down the hall to the door; slamming it behind her so hard the foundation was shaken.

Harry made damn sure he could no longer hear her footsteps before he pulled the brilliantly gold chain out from under his rumpled shirt.

He walked quickly towards his desk. "Accio book." He intoned sharply, watching as a small leather-bound book zoomed over to him. Flicking his wand at a nearby lamp, he picked up his quill and began to scratch away.

12 August 1998

London

H.J.Potter

I've started final trials on the time-turner, the spells on it are complete, I do believe.

Soon, my love, soon.

One day…one day soon, this will all be a bad dream.

Hermione doesn't understand. She thinks I am losing it.

She thinks I'm crazy, you know.

And she's right.

Right?

I'm crazy about you.

Just. You. Wait.

**_Harry James Potter._**

He scrawled his name on the sheet in a display of emotion and placed his quill away. 'Well…time to give the thing a whirl,' he thought, gently placing the charm about his neck.


End file.
